


Calligraphia

by Serenhawk



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Valentine's Day Fic Dump [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Can I even Destiel?, Destiel Smut Brigade, Fluff, Librarian Dean, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester does not date. He definitely does not accept dates for Valentine's Day from mysterious blue-eyed stalkers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calligraphia

**Author's Note:**

> For K,  
> Remember that day we bonded over Neruda writing Destiel, and The Pillow Book?  
> Yours, A.
> 
>  
> 
> Not beta read.

 

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 _"Shit,"_ he breathed, nearly jumping out of his skin at the earthy voice emanating from a few feet away.

How he hadn’t seen him come in he didn’t know, since he’d expended a good deal of energy denying being hyper-aware of the dude's consistently unpredictable presence for several months now. Doubly so after what he’d come to refer to as _the incident._

Dean let his head hang for a second to diffuse a flash of panic. Turning, he looked past the end of the stack to the man occupying one of the library’s offensively upholstered chairs.

“Hey, Cas, uh…Castiel,” he fumbled, wondering why the sudden urge for formality wrested forth. Possibly in reaction to the last time they'd exchanged words they had also exchanged a number of inept brutal kisses and some seriously handsy groping against the freezing brick wall of the bar where, until his dark haired stalker had unexpectedly arrived, he’d been having a less than stellar birthday. Okay so ‘stalker’ was maybe a little unkind, but the dude did have a habit of just appearing out of nowhere.

“How— how’ve you been?” he continued.

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself?”

Dean suddenly found the book of creatively decorated cupcakes he was holding absorbing. “Ah, yeah good. You know, same old—"

Flipping the cover closed, he turned to run his index finger along the spines until he found the book’s allocated position. He slotted it home and pretended to throw himself into a quick shelf check of the remaining bay.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” came the soft accusation from somewhere behind his right shoulder. This time he knew he'd startled, surprise chased by a burst of the static current he’d come to expect whenever the stranger was nearby. Not that they were strangers any longer, he had to concede, though the other man was fucking strange, if that counted. It just happened that Dean’s body didn’t seem to view that as a strike in the negative column by the way his nerve endings snapped to attention in Castiel’s presence.

He held his breath and spun slowly to meet the stare directed at him from an uncomfortably short distance away.

He lifted his chin. “No, I haven’t,” he claimed, without conviction.

Castiel tipped his head to the left and planted his hands firmly into the pockets of his ubiquitous coat.

 _Fuck it, he totally had been._ “Uh, yeah, I kinda have,” he revised, ashamedly. “Sorry.”

The other man parted his mouth to say something but then changed his mind, drawing the tip of his tongue across his lower lip as he looked away down the row. Dean was fully aware how obviously his eyes tracked the movement but he couldn’t stop himself if someone paid him to.

It’s what had gotten him into this whole mess to start with; paying too much attention to the full cushion Castiel’s mouth, the stray tufts of hair over his ears, the slope of his neck where it disappeared under his collar, the permanent creases in his forehead that made him itch to reach out and rub them smooth with the pad of his thumb—

“Dean?”

“Ah, yeah?” _Crap_ _._ He refocused back on the other man’s eyes.

“I said I hoped you didn’t think we got off on the wrong foot, but if you’ve blacked it all out maybe it’s worse than I feared,” Castiel teased, hesitant and watchful.

“Umm, yeah. I mean, no, I’m not. It was— I had uh… fun.” He bowed, sliding a palm over his jaw and scraping his nails back though the stubble there. “Sorry, Monday morning and I missed two out of my three coffees,” he said, lifting his head to grin sheepishly, which earned him a broad one in return and a release on the valve of tension.

“Maybe I can buy you one, for pharmaceutical reasons,” Castiel offered, eyes suddenly mirthful. “Or better yet, can I invite you out? Dinner maybe?”

Dean warmed from a sudden nervous flush. “Yeah, Yeah sure,” he blurted before his brain could catch up to supply a rapid fire of reasons to say no.

He _always_ said no. He made damn sure he was never in a position to be asked out in the first place, which may account for his current 'deer in the headlights' situation. He'd been so successful he'd become complacent.

Castiel indulged his relief with an expansive breath. “Good, I’m… honored,” he pronounced, awkwardly formal again. “Are you free Saturday, perhaps?”

“I... think so,” Dean answered after a quick mental review of his not-so-hectic social calendar. “Okay.”

“Okay,” the other man echoed slowly, absorbing Dean's answer. “Good. Well, I have a lot to complete today, so I’ll…. I’ll be around. If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured, stepping back. It was only when he did Dean was reminded how close they'd been standing.

“See ya round… Cas,” he nodded, feeling weightless and vaguely nauseated. He watched as Castiel returned to his seat and proceeded to muddle with a collection of books and papers. _Okay_ he affirmed in his head, spinning back to grab the last few books to shelve. So that just happened.

 _It’s just a date, you can do a date. Thousands survive them every day_ he reassured. Taking someone home and exploring the earthly delights of the flesh he can do without batting an eyelid (although batting his eyelashes certainly helps), but dating? Dean Winchester Did. Not. Date. Judging by the way he already felt jittery he was quite possibly allergic. And he had the whole of the coming week to wind himself up about it too he realized, resolving to visit the liquor store on the way home.

The word ‘date’ banged round his head for the rest of the day like a bumble bee trapped against a window. The bumble bee became a frantic bird when he happened to look at the desk's diary and realized the date of the coming Saturday. Maybe Castiel hadn’t twigged when he’d asked. In fact Dean was sure he couldn’t have. He should probably tell him, so they could swap to Friday or something. Because yeah, that wasn’t going to be awkward.

Dean saw his chance when he was shelving in the dark recesses of the non-fiction just before closing. He pushed the book cart to the end of the bay and turned to lean to Castiel's side, against the wall of the alcove where he'd had been working all day. He waited to be noticed while the man bent over the desk to shuffle a deep set of pages into order, brows rumpled in concentration and lips spliced around a pencil that did not draw attention to how wide and flexible they were _at all._ Castiel appeared oblivious as he gathered up all his belongings and neatly stowed them in a large leather satchel. He didn’t acknowledge Dean until he began to turn.

“Dean, hello,” he said, surprise evident as he fumbled with the bag's closure. Dean felt a trickle of satisfaction at turning the tables.

“Hey," he started, trying for casual but sounding timid to his own ears. "Uh, you know Saturday is Valentine’s day, right?”

Castiel straightened and faced him, intrepid. “I am aware, yes.”

“Okay, just checking. So… no pressure then,” he replied, pursing his lips to hide a swell of anxiety.

Castiel pulled that earnest squinty face Dean was becoming familiar with. The one that made him simultaneously want to laugh and cloak his soul.

“Are you afraid of love, Dean?”

 _Wow. Okay, that’s….wow._ He swallowed hard, then forced a half-hearted snicker he knew fooled neither of them. The question sliced to ribbons every response that came to mind. _Christ, what was with this guy?_

“That’s a very personal question,” he eventually answered, shifting his feet. “Not the mention a little presumptuous.

Something flared in the blue gaze binding his own. “I apologise, I don’t mean to pry,” the other man said in such a way that Dean was ninety-nine percent sure he was completely down with prying, and possibly wouldn’t think twice about escalating to B & E should he deem it necessary. “It’s a simple question however,” Castiel continued, defiant. Dean’s insides did a violent lurch, but not _away._

“Ah, romance? That’s umm… Yeah I’m just not really with the whole love or… love—“ he stammered, a corner of his brain deeply embarrassed at being an emotionally stunted inarticulate dipshit, while the rest of it was trying to desperately figure out how to extract from the conversation, concluding it would just dump his dignity and make a run for it. “You know what? Maybe this isn’t a good idea, we should quit while we’re ahead, yeah?” He dropped his eyes and swiveled back to the trolley, trying to ignore Castiel looming at his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I gotta finish this,” he muttered, call numbers swimming as he pretended to focus on them, silently willing the other man to leave.

“Is that... is it what you want?” Dean wasn’t prepared for the loss softening Castiel’s gruff timbre.

Dean shrugged, dismissive, but conceded he really had no answer to that question. In fact he’d never had an answer to that question; what he wanted always seemed irrelevant to the way his life had unfolded.

His instincts were screaming  _YES abort immediately_ , but the response escaping his mouth came as a surprise. “No, it’s not. I don’t know—“ He risked a glance sideways.

Castiel’s cheek gathered in a tiny off-center smile that pulled some of the tension from him. “Come to my house, I’ll cook you a meal. No big occasion, no… _pressure_.” The smile deepened as the glint returned to his eyes. “Call it an expression of interest, in friendship,” the other man finished, feigning ease.

“Can I think about it?” Dean hedged, committed to his commitment-phobia.

“You may.”

Castiel stepped away abruptly, leaving Dean free to breathe. He paused at the end of the row, adding “My advice is to _you,_ is to not think too hard however.” And with a swish of beige he was gone.

_The fuck did he mean by that? Asshole._

Dean pouted, pondering how such an asshole could make him feel like he was being held under a UV light, all his old stains and blood splatter visible for forensic examination when they didn’t really know the first thing about each other, the sensation in conflict with an anxious ache tugging him into the glare, prising and peeling, wanting.

Clearly he’d been tricked, he decided, or maybe hypnotized. His mind drifted back to his birthday, going over the evening as he absently shoved the laden trolley around the corner to the 900’s. He could shelve the travel guides with his eyes closed despite never having had the inclination to peruse them; not even the apparent mysterious old-world delights of Croatia could entice him on to an airplane.

 

 ~ * ~

 

When Castiel had first walked into the bar that Saturday night he hadn’t noticed Dean despite carefully surveying the one-step-above-dive establishment. Upon spotting a delicate ethereal red-head at a table in the far corner he'd joined her with traded kisses on the cheek. Dean had been absurdly taken-aback, thinking _not his type_ without having a single shred of evidence for arriving at the conclusion.

He barely even knew the guy. Sure the slightly unkempt dark-haired man was in the library more often than not, and Dean had found out his name and that he was some sort of writer along the way. But otherwise all they had going was this whole pseudo-casual conversation thing, tinged with the intimate banter that you get with someone sparking off you, and vice versa. It had confused Dean, because hello, _dude._

So okay, he could be flexible in his sexuality when such occasions arose, but with guys they seldom did. Sex with men - that was the easy part. It was the language of getting there he had difficulty with, so he rarely tried. With women, Dean Winchester was fluent in seduction and square in his comfort zone.

But Castiel tripped a whole new and unexpected type of flare. Desire hummed faintly like a picked string, but it played within a chord of curiosity, and a completely weird sense of what he could only label as _recognition_. He couldn't make any sense of it despite the sensation plaguing him, mostly when he lay awake in the middle of the night. The whole thing had intensified to the point where Dean felt like a human metal detector, his frequency set to trill whenever the stranger walked into his workplace.

So later when the red-head walked out stiffly leaving Castiel alone, shoulders slumped in an epitome of defeat, Dean had watched keenly to catch his eye. When he finally did, they shared one of those looks that stretched and spun too long until Dean broke it with an awkward wave. The other man had narrowed his eyes before looking away to frown ferociously at the wall, leaving Dean to wonder what the wall had done to deserve it; but then Sam had called his attention away, demanding an answer to a question obnoxiously enough to indicate his brother had drank his limit for the evening. When he’d looked back, Castiel had gone.

Dean had all but written off the chance encounter by the time Sam and Ruby got up to leave; Charlie and Kevin had already excused themselves citing some gaming marathon they each had to be awake and fighting fit for the next day, and Dean had more than a tolerable dose of his brother’s girlfriend for one night. He’d let Sam give him an overly affectionate hug and, having given up on anything but a mediocre birthday, was reaching for his jacket in order to follow them out when Castiel appeared, hovering sullenly at the booth.

“Hi,” Dean said, after it was clear the man wasn’t going to kick off the conversation.

“May I?” Castiel asked curtly, gesturing to the empty seat with the glass he was carrying.

“Sure,” Dean responded, puzzled but intrigued, and encouraged by several hours of alcohol ingestion. “Bad date?” he added mildly, once Chatty Cathy had seated and arranged his blanket of vexation around him.

“Date?” Castiel had asked, frowning. “Oh, Anna? No, she’s my sister. We had some…family matters to discuss.” He took a long swill and landed the empty glass on the table with an excess of force. “You know, I try to help, but in the end I feel like I just contribute to how everyone in my family seems locked in some undeclared battle for supremacy, with no concern for the casualties of the process.”

Wow, Dean had thought, that has to be the longest sentence Castiel had ever said to him. He’d finished his own glass, and ordered them each several more rounds. Gradually Castiel detached from his dour mood and the conversation took on a life of its own. Family turned out to be a fertile topic as they found common ground in emotionally unavailable parents, an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for siblings and what hindsight had illuminated as overall shitty childhoods. It wasn’t long until Dean felt blurry and warm, not helped by the way Castiel’s knees has ceased knocking against his in favor of resting slotted there, calves grazing and kindling heat that bloomed brazenly up into his seat.

That was until the other man had fixed him wolfishly and turned up the furnace that melted his brain.

“You don’t look like a librarian,” Castiel intoned out of the blue, like an accusation.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Dean had replied, truthfully. “Why? Am I a disappointment? You have a kink or something?” he finished, reckless with bourbon and, yes he knew it now, a fuckton of sexual tension, the tall walls of the booth in which they sat locking it in the air so it heckled and jabbed at them.

Castiel hadn’t even blinked. “No.” he’d said carefully, “though if you were to wear only sensible heels, glasses and told me to 'shhh', you might give me one.”

And with that mind-blowing admission Dean’s cognitive functioning took mandatory shore leave and his memories became a blur: locked stares that somehow propelled them outside, stumbling between icy puddles to be backed against the ochre wall, Castiel’s chest and hands crowding him, mouth taking and tongue bullying his own name down to one syllable on Dean’s. An accident of stood-on toes, so many goddamn clothes, excuses, apologies, and then withdrawal leaving him to totter the few blocks home bewildered and so fucking horny that jacking off when he fell into bed only made it worse.

 

 

Since that freezing January night -- until Castiel had managed to hijack him this morning -- Dean had only glimpsed him a handful of times, and made sure he was really busy doing very important top-secret life-or-death library related work where there was no chance of them running into each other. And now suddenly he was going on a fucking date? A _maybe_ date. On VALENTINE’S DAY. Definitely something underhand involved, like a... a spell. Or maybe he was coming down with something he posed, going as far as feeling his own brow in vain.

 

~ * ~

 

The next day the library remained blessedly Castiel-free which, much to Dean’s dismay, had him prickly and irritable...like that time Sam had finally succeeded in getting him with itching powder. It must have spilled over because even mild mannered Kevin had told him to chill-the-hell out. That night he went straight home and whined to a sympathetic bottle of Jack.

Wednesday brought with it whole new can of worms, the kind that felt like they’d been left open in his stomach making him squirm in discomfort. They were bearable during the times he caught a glimpse of Castiel as they both worked, or passed each other with awkward scant smiles in between the rows. But they took on a whole new life when the other man made a point of brushing past him and slipping a wad of paper in his front pocket without a word.

He’d waited until he could huddle in a corner of the office investigate. It was neatly folded, over and over so that his fingers fumbled opening it. Inside, in an elegant cursive painted script was a poem:

 

_‘We, who are parts of Adam heard with him_

_The song of Angels and of seraphim_

_Out of memory, though dull and sad, retains_

_Some echo still of those unearthly strains’_

 

_Huh._

He sat chewing his lower lip for a few moments, then folded the page quickly and left it inside the book he’d been reading during his breaks, not wanting it haunting him in his pocket for the rest of the day. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but Castiel was odd; cute, for a nerd, but definitely registering on the kook-o-meter and he figured that was enough of an explanation.

That night he had a dream, of the same kind he’d been having a lot lately – of strange winged monsters, lurking and ominous. Nightmares were something that had plagued him since childhood -- it didn't take visiting a shrink to work out they mostly related to the fire that long ago claimed his mother, and they'd refreshed after what had happened with Lisa -- but _these_ dreams were rarely nightmarish. They'd been occurring on a weekly basis for months, and while so vivid they'd freaked him out at first, over time they'd turned more benevolent, though still decidedly eerie.  

The next day in his down time he found himself scratching out depictions of the creatures on printer paper. He was beginning to develop a collection of the drawings at home, some of them better than others, but so far he'd not been able to throw any away. The shadowy presences from his subconscious occupied his thoughts up until the moment he’d been working on the desk and Castiel had stepped up, silently handing him a book to be issued along with another folded note before leaving. He pocketed it immediately, but not before Charlie had let him know she’d seen everything, fluttering her eyelids and making some comment about ‘that Castiel guy being _dreamy’._

He rolled his eyes and slipped away, shutting himself in a toilet stall to unfold the square of thickened paper and read in the same beautiful penmanship;

 

_‘The beauty of the heart is the lasting beauty:_

_Its lips give to drink of the water of life.’_

 

A wry smile played at his mouth as he shook his head and pocketed the note, this time retaining it there. If Castiel was playing a game Dean was on a different pitch; romantic gestures were wasted on him, it was a personal truth he was sure of. The attention did make him a little flushed though, and if he had his arm twisted he might admit he was intrigued to see where this curious attempt at flirting was going.

For the rest of the day when his concentration wandered it was in the direction of daydreams involving dark-haired strangers catching and manhandling him in the stacks; pushed against shelves in a darkened corner, volumes landing at his feet as a strong thigh divided his and long fingers slid forcefully down the back of his pants. They were welcome (if distracting) thoughts, but different; really different since normally _he_ was the one getting up into people’s faces, be it driven by passion or aggression. It was new and he had to admit, exhilarating. Were they a result of Castiel’s mysterious freaky-ass effect on him? Probably. Did it help sway his decision to accept the invitation? He assured his nosey flag-waving dick the jury was still out on that issue.

That evening Dean was humming tunelessly as he boxed away leftover pizza when his phone went off, his brother’s Cousin It impression lighting up the screen.

“Yo,” he sang in answer. _Damn_ , he was in a good mood. It stuck out on him all the more for its scarcity of late.

“ _Hey, doing anything Saturday evening? Wanna come over?”_

“Aww, aren’t you sweet, thinking of your poor old spinster of a brother on Valentine’s Day. I’m touched Sammy, really,” he replied, equal parts gratitude and sarcasm.

_“I wasn’t— oh whatever, just thought I’d ask. Spinster? You been reading 19th Century chick-lit again? 'Cause you know technically a spinster is a wo--”_

“Don’t you and the evil one have plans?” he asked, pointedly interrupting his brother's veiled insult. Sam had never taken his reading habits seriously.

_“Naa, she’s ahh, she’s doing something already.”_

“Ah-huh.” He didn’t need to add anything to his reaction - Sam was aware that Dean thought his relationship with Ruby was just a farce at this point. He was counting down the days until his little brother finally acquired the balls to get rid of her. He’d always found her hard to stomach, for reasons he found hard to put a finger on. He could just read people, even if he was shit at actually talking to them.

_“So…?”_

“Well I’m sorry little bro, but I can’t come and keep _you_ company, I sorta have plans too.”

 _“You have a date?”_ If Sam had been in the room Dean would have slapped him on the head for the amount in incredulity he packed into those four words.

“Yeah. Well, maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

_“Who is she? Come on, spill. And what’s to decide?”_

“Umm…they’re umm—”

_“Oh. My. God”_

“What?” he scowled, his brother’s excitement hitting him full force down the phone.

_“It’s a GUY?”_

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighed forcefully. While his sex life wasn’t a topic of conversation with his brother, Sam was aware that he occasionally had dalliances with both primary genders. To be fair it wasn’t a secret after an incident when they were young and his brother had come back to the motel room they shared much earlier than he’d been _strictly_  instructed, so Dean didn't think he could be held responsible for any permanent psychological scarring. But all the same he didn't think either of them were well adjusted enough to talk about the subject _now_.

 _“Good for you,”_ Sam said mildly, ending the pause.

“Uh, really?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

_“Of course. He must be something if you’re going out with him.”_

“Yeah, he’s something alright,” he agreed in a drawl full of irony. He just had no fucking clue what yet.

Sam chuckled in his ear. _“Okay, well good luck, I guess? And let me know how it goes. Without too many details.”_

“Will do. And thanks for the offer, Sam. I’m sorry you’ll be by yourself.”

They hung up after a short goodbye, and Dean realized he’d already mentally decided that seeing Castiel on Saturday was a forgone conclusion. Although, he backtracked, he hadn’t accepted in person, so there was still time for his fear of intimacy to wrestle control back.

The next morning he was disappointed he didn’t see Castiel at all, and was walking past the desk on his way to find lunch when he shrugged on his jacket and found another folded note in his wallet pocket. He pulled it out and frowned, then spun to glare at Charlie – there was no other explanation than she was colluding with his stalker. His friend just rolled her big eyes and whistled in exaggerated innocence, so he shook his head and made for the door while unfolding the note.

 

_‘I never saw a purple cow_

_I never hope to see one_

_But I can tell you anyhow_

_I’d rather see than be one.’_

 

He stopped dead and barked a laugh, in surprise as much as anything. Someone putting in this much effort to get him to react may be worth ejecting his neuroses for, just for a few hours. How bad could it be, seriously? He took a deep breath and decided right there in the foyer that he’d give up his shit and give this... _whatever,_ a chance, for one evening. _One._

A mixture of relief and anticipation followed him for the rest of the afternoon until the day was all but finished. He saw Castiel on his periphery, walking up one the long rows on his way out. He hurriedly jotted down his number on a piece of paper, folding it meticulously just as the other man had his. He had to stride over to catch him in the doorway as he stalked out.

“Hey, Dr Seuss,” he called.

Castiel turned and lifted his chin, hopeful. Dean stepped up to him and slipped the note into the deep pocket of his coat. “Text me,” he ordered cheerfully, adding a wink for effect, and caught the beginnings of a beaming smile he mirrored as he spun and walked back to begin shutting down the numerous computers.

He’d stopped by the local to grab dinner and a few beers when he Castiel made contact. It made Dean chuckle again, the man texting in the same manner he spoke.

_**>  It was good to see you laugh, Dean.** _

Dean huffed. _Total creeper_.

**Well, I blame you. And Thanx.**

**> _It was not Dr Seuss, by the way. Though I do have a soft spot for nonsense poetry._**

He was not one to beat about the bush. He did not have the patience with his either his fingers or phone keyboards for prolific text conversations.

**You still want to do something tomorrow?**

The reply was almost instant.

_**>  I Do. Does this mean you accept? My offer to prepare a meal still stands.** _

**Sure. Just send me the address and time.**

Castiel complied, and Dean confirmed with a brief **C U then :)** as he walked in to his apartment and shut the door with his a shove of his boot behind him. He then realized, in the resulting silence, he had to set about trying to cast the impending date from his mind for the following twenty-four hours.

 

~ * ~

 

It didn’t go so well as first, sitting alone with a stomach full of beer and the memory of Castiel’s mouth keeping him warm. When he went to bed he started stroking himself out of habit, inspired by having taken notice of Castiel's refined dexterous hands for the hundredth time as they cradled the armful of volumes he was taking home. Then just as he was getting somewhere he had a minor crisis as he debated whether he was even looking for sex or not. He thought he was… his dick clearly thought he was when he imagined those plush lips near it, but he’d never really considered dating a guy before, or having _feelings_ for one. He didn't even know if he was capable of it. He was crap at relationships anyway and generally avoided any situation that might result in even the remote possibility of one.

Saturday he dedicated to some much needed maintenance of his car, whom as an older lady required a certain regimen of TLC. She took his attention away nicely until he found himself grime-covered with only an hour before he was due as Castiel’s. He suddenly had to force himself to breathe, the wings of butterflies using up all his air. It was stupid being this nervous, and he knew at the back of his mind, in the closet where he’d stashed and tried to board up the thought, that it was because this could _mean_ something. He actually _wanted_ it to mean something, even if he didn’t know what that something was. It was a feeling he was familiar with but had successfully repelled most of his adult life by his well-constructed and impeccably maintained armour.

An hour later the wing-beats had eased as he sat in his parked car, hands firm on the steering wheel finding reassurance in the solid presence of his oldest friend. Collecting the bottle of wine he’d doubled back for (he’d also spent eight entire minutes in front of the boxed chocolates debating if he should buy some) he left his car and made his way up the path bordered by an overgrown garden to the front of the small non-descript house. ‘Quaint’ was the word that came to mind, and not at all what he was expecting. Then again who knew what he'd been expecting.

“Dean,” was all Castiel said when he opened the faded front door promptly to Dean’s knock, stretching his arm in invitation to enter. All of Dean’s anxieties flew like bats exiting the belfry upon seeing the other man, the now familiar pull taking over and dampening his reservations and nerves. It was also the first time had seen him out of his usual coat, Dean realized, appreciating his standard white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and paired with dark Jeans.

“Hey. Uh, here,” Dean replied, handing him the bottle and glancing around. The interior of Castiel’s home was in keeping with the outside – comfortable, not overdressed, slightly overpopulated with seemingly random stacks of books. “Cozy place,” he added, although he wasn’t sure that large framed menacing work of an eagle carrying a man dominating one wall fitted into that description. Something about it pulled at him; disquieting, familiar, and a little too like what he’d been drawing lately.

The other man must have caught him studying it. “It’s Dore, from his Dante illustrations,” he explained. “Specifically the purgatory series.”

“It’s… intense,” Dean offered in return.

“That’s one word for it yes,” Castiel agreed quietly before turning back to him. “Are you hungry? May I take your coat?”

Dean shed his outer layers and followed his host to the kitchen. Castiel opened the bottle and poured them both a glass before inviting Dean to sit. He soon served them both; a simple meal that wasn’t Dean’s usual fare but was welcome all the same, consisting of a pasta dish and some of the best bread Dean could remember tasting. He said as much as he finished it, wiping his plate clean with the last slice.

“Thank you,” Castiel answered modestly. “I made it myself.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I like the science, and the tactility in the process. I like... doing things with my hands.”

Dean’s imagination supplied a couple of ideas about what the man’s hands might be good at. “Me too,” he said after a moment.

“Such as?”

That put him on the spot. “Ah, I like fixing things, cars mostly – I have a classic. And I, um, I like to draw,” he confessed.

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed, scanning him thoughtfully in a way that made Dean itch.

“And you?” he asked, turning the spotlight back. “What else do you like doing? With your hands.”

“Well, in the summer I like to garden.”

Dean grinned, thinking of the jungle outside. “That so?”

“Yes, well, in my case I apply the term loosely,” Castiel replied wryly. “My philosophy is one of encouragement rather than control. And I like the life it brings: butterflies, bees… I find I'm inexplicably comforted by the presence of bees.”

“Hmm,” Dean echoed mischievously. _Yep, still odd_ he concluded, finishing his second drink. It had barely dented his beleaguered sobriety but he felt light-headed nonetheless.

Castiel gave him a sideways smile before emptying his glass and standing to clear the table.

“Here, let me help,” Dean offered, jumping up a little too quickly for his cool factor to catch up with. Taking several plates he followed his host to the kitchen. When Castiel turned he impulsively stepped into his space, pressing him to the bench as he reached around his waist to set down the dishes.

Denim eyes narrowed at him. “Dean,” he croaked in a soft warning, and Dean began to think his name had never sounded good as when it tumbled like gravel over Castiel’s tongue.

“Annoying, isn’t it,” he pushed, inching closer.

“That’s not the adjective I’d choose,” the other man said, rivaling his gaze but failing to keep a tremor from his voice.

Dean leaned in and hovered, challenging both their limits and finding Castiel’s, the lips he’d been thinking about for weeks surging for his as he was unceremoniously reversed into the opposing wall.

 _Fuck, this is what he’d he needed,_ his brain handing over the wheel to his limbic system without pause and letting his mouth be searched and seized while long fingers anchored his jaw. 

Then as crudely as Castiel had moved at him he withdrew, stepping back and looking steadfastly at the linoleum. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t— my apologies,” he stammered.

Dean, confused and already breathless, felt bruised in more ways than one. “Sorry?” he challenged.

“Yes, I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“ _Let_ it? Its takes two and I kinda want to tango here,” Dean assured, as emphatically as his ego would let him. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel implored, eyes shooting up to meet his. “It’s just, it’s been too long and I… I’m out of my depth.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” he mumbled back, not even sure what either of them meant.

“I didn’t ask you here to get laid, Dean. It’s not— I don’t do casual. I don’t really do _this,_ ever.”

They stared each other down, measuring the invisible impasse.

“Should I go?” Dean asked after a few moments.

“No! Please, please stay. Unless you want to leave—“

“I’d rather stay,” he confirmed quietly. He shuffled his feet and leaned back to peer up at the ceiling. “Neither of us are good at this, are we?” he sighed.

A small laugh escaped Castiel. It was the first time Dean had heard the sound, he noted. “No, it appears not,” he agreed dryly.

They each stood, clumsy in the silence.  “Another drink?” his host proposed eventually.

“Yes!” Dean accepted, with feeling.

Castiel moved to rummage in a cupboard next to Dean’s head, pulling down a thick bottle of whiskey. Sliding two shot glasses to Dean’s elbow he poured, unsteady hand spilling a little before lifting them both. “To friendship,” he proposed as Dean took his. “And romantic incompetence. On Valentine's day,” he added ruefully before downing the amber liquid with gusto.

Dean followed suit and nodded, adding ‘hit me,” when Castiel offered a repeat. The alcohol never made it to their mouths though, Dean absently lifting a hand to squeeze the other man’s shoulder as he poured. He told himself it was to offer reassurance but really he craved contact, like a magnet aimed at its opposing pole.

Interrupted, Castiel paused and took in a shuddering breath. “Fuck it,” he snapped and grabbed a handful of Dean’s waist pulling them together. This kiss though, was the opposite of any that preceded it. It was forceful, yes, but charged with artlessness and inquiry, questions over demands. Dean flicked his tongue over Castiel’s bottom lip, mirroring the action he’d been absorbed in as a witness and taking his time memorizing the fullness and texture. His hand slid to mold fingers to the hinge of Castiel’s jaw, securing as he drank his fill of the man who’d been invading his dreams and his working hours.

It wasn’t until Castiel made a small noise at the back of his throat Dean relented. “Cas,” the name the only word his tongue could form before his lips drifted down over the roughened chin and further to the neck he needed to taste and claim. Castiel’s hands were roving over his back, lifting his shirt from his jeans, pressing into his flesh at his hips and kneading, pulling them closer.

“Dean?” Castiel finally rumbled, just as Dean was gliding his teeth along shell of his ear.

“Mmm?”

“If I ask you to follow me, it’s not because I want sex, right?”

“Mmm,” Dean agreed, nuzzling into the hair curling over the ear he wanted to continue abusing. “And if I come with you," he murmured in return, "it’s not because I’m looking to fall in love, okay?” 

“Yes. Understood.” Castiel complied, "Now would you care to accompany me to somewhere more comfortable than my kitchen.”

It was a redundant question, Dean only making an expectant noise in affirmation as Castiel hastily turned to lead him by the hand down the darkened hallway. _Bedroom doesn’t equal sex, right…_ Dean mused as his companion turned on a dull lamp at the side of a pristine low bed.

He didn’t have time to take in much more before Castiel was tugging at his clothes again, efficiently taking apart his button-down and pushing it off his shoulders. His tee was then pulled over his head with his unspoken permission before that delicious mouth landed on him, scraping teeth along his collar-bone and sucking kisses down the centre of his chest.

If Castiel was avoiding sex he’s doing it wrong Dean thought, amusement evaporating into desire as the button on his jeans was unfastened.

Castiel straightened and looked him in the eye. “How would you feel about spending the night here?” he asked in a formal tone, incongruous with him shoving both hands down over Dean’s brief covered ass.

 _Well, that wasn’t fair_ , it’s not like he was going to say no at this stage in the game. Castiel’s hands moved back up, gliding over his shoulder blades before dipping under his arms and raking blunt nails along his ribs. _God dammit_ , it felt so good to be touched. Really touched, with need and deference.

“I could be persuaded,” he replied, evasiveness a pretence. He drove the point home by locking his fingers behind Castiel’s neck and taking another kiss that became a scuffle to finish removing the remainder of each other’s clothes.

They sank chaotically into the bed, Dean ranging fingertips over the skin of the man above him, taking in his subtle curves. Castiel was more substantial than he’d imagined, leanly muscled and exuding a grace previously hidden by clothing. Reflexively he squeezed a hand between them to palm lightly over the front of Castiel’s underwear and received a groan of reluctance against his mouth. A protest of “Mmm, no,” was bitten into his bottom lip, followed by confusion as his mouth was abandoned in favor of having wet circles tongued into his chest in an indirect path to his groin.

Dean watched as Castiel paused before nosing tentatively at the fabric covering his cock, already aching for freedom. Dark eyes flicked to his before Castiel mouthed, firm and hot over Dean’s balls, sucking against the cotton of his briefs. He moaned, low and weak and dropped his head back on the pillow, combing a hand into Castiel’s hair as his lips stretched around Dean’s dick, the fabric rapidly becoming soaked as he leaked under the tantalizingly vague swipe of the other man’s tongue.

“Dammit, Cas,” he gasped, frustrated and forcing himself to stay contained.

“Mm-hmm?” was the reply vibrated against his erection.

“Not complaining, but for someone abstaining those are some pretty unchaste moves you’ve got there.”

Castiel raised his head. “I may not want sex, but you do,” he said, bluntly.

“Oh come on, you know it doesn’t work like that buddy,” Dean growled in reply, tightening his grip in the hair bunched between his fingers.

“It could.”

“No, it can’t, because… it just can’t. I don’t want it to.” He was startled at his own assertion; he could absolutely lie here and have Castiel continue his unselfish attentions but that would only lead to awkwardness and then probably never seeing each other again, the prospect tearing at whatever was happening here.

Castiel looked lost in thought for a few moments before rising to sit back on his haunches either side of Dean’s knees. “May I remove these?” he asked, frowning again and tugging at the hem of Dean’s underwear.

“Uh, okay?” he answered, convinced this was the most confusing and unorthodox seduction he’d ever been a party to. His arousal jumped up a notch as he lifted his hips to allow his briefs to be peeled from him, as well as noting the man whose bed he was in now sported some serious bedroom hair which Dean decided was a crime wasn't permanent.

Castiel discarded them on the floor before gliding his palms feather lightly along Dean’s thighs. “No sex, right?” Dean whispered coarsely, still trying to find the same page.

“No,” Castiel confirmed lowly. “But I’d like to learn you. Now roll over.”

 _Still odd_ Dean decided, but damn if that order wasn’t hot as fuck.

He hoisted himself on one elbow and sank down on his stomach, his cock in two minds about being cocooned out of the state of play. That was until his companion licked a wet strip along the crease of his ass to end with a sucking kiss in his right hip. “Fu--,” he breathed, taken by surprise and earning another chuckle.

Castiel sat on the back of his thighs and leaned forward, pressing his thumbs along his spine. “Why are you afraid of love, Dean?” he asked gently.

Well that wasn’t the kind of ‘learning him’ Dean was expecting, making him feel instantly more vulnerable and self-conscious than being sat on and having his naked ass facing a dude he barely knew in his bedroom. “Did you have something go wrong?” the other man pressed.

Dean shifted his cheek where it rested on his forearm. Castiel obviously wasn’t prepared to let the subject go. “Its… its not something I’m good at. And yeah, the last person I was with, it did go wrong.”

“Did it end badly?”

“It ended… bloodily,” he answered, causing Castiel to halt his massaging fingers at Dean’s sides. “Don’t worry,” he huffed, “it was nothing permanent. I mean she - Lisa - she’s okay, but something… bad, happened to her and it was— it was kinda my fault.”

Dean squirmed, the memories and self-disgust stalking through him. “Okay,” Castiel murmured, resuming with soothing strokes down his back Dean didn’t deserve. _Fuck_ , it had been a long time since he’d talked about this.

He sighed. “Afterwards, once the dust had settled, we both knew we couldn’t be in each other’s lives anymore, that it would never work again.”

“Hmm,” Castiel answered, cloaking Dean’s back with his weight and _holy shit_ a freaking hard cock against his ass cheek. _When did he take off his underwear?_ He wondered, distracted from his angst. Maybe that was Castiel’s plan, sneaky bastard.

“So what brought you to work in the public library?”

“Uhh,” Dean scrambled at the sudden tangent, and the sensations of Castiel’s chest slowly sliding the length of his back. “I just fell into it, I guess, when I moved here with my brother. I like order, and stories, so it suits. For now at least.”

Castiel was quiet and still for a few moments, before his weight hurriedly disappeared. “Back in a minute,” he assured as Dean raised his head in question, which also allowed him to appreciate his lithe figure leaving the room. True to his word his companion returned quickly, carrying a small bottle and a delicate brush.

“What..ah?” Dean puffed, suspicious as Castiel straddled him again.

“I’m going to write you a story.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just lie still.”

 _Again with the orders_. Dean frowned, dubious but intrigued. He relaxed until the first cold swipe landed on the wing of his shoulder. He turned his head and saw Castiel’s face drawn in impatience. “Still,” he said curtly, dipping the brush down the bottle’s narrow neck.

Dean rested his head again, prepared this time. _Just go with the weird_ he told himself. After a minute the soft licks of the brush turned soothing, and he was almost sorry when a few minutes last Castiel eventually signaled he was done, the small of his back tingling at the period placed there.

He grimaced to look back over his shoulder. “Read it to me,” he asked, feeling a mixture of turned-on and pleasantly languid. “Please, Cas,” he added when Castiel shook his head.

“It’s part of a poem, actually. One of my favorites.”

“Go on,” he urged.

“ _Everything carries me to you,_

_as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals,_

_were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me_.” Castiel related shyly.

Despite the acute sentiment, the words landed like footprints, subtle indents left on his terrain. Dean didn’t know what the fuck to say to that, so he did what came naturally, he acted in lieu of finding the right words.

Twisting up on his knees he loomed over the other man to kiss him again, light and sweet, sliding his tongue like molasses against the other man’s just enough to taste. “That’s awesome,” he eventually whispered inadequately.

“That kiss, or the poem?”

“Both,” he replied, sitting back and smiling at the tranquil look on Castiel’s face. “Is that what you write? Poetry?”

“Me? No. I… I write for other people, autobiographies mostly. I’m a ghostwriter. Hence why so much of my time is spent at the library, researching for the most part. And because I get thoroughly sick of my own company,” he finished dryly.

“Is it what you want to be doing?” Dean felt like the question needed to be asked.

“No, it pays the bills. I’m trying to finish my own work, but it’s turned into rather a beast. I can’t seem to find the end.”

“What is it about?” Dean delved, gliding fingertips down the crest of the other man's thighs.

“Oh, it’s a very overblown thing, all soaring mythology – good, evil, inscrutable corrupt angels, ambiguous devils… it’s probably not worth the paper it’s written on but it’s what wrote itself when I tried,” Castiel finished with a dismissive handwave.

“I had wondered why you spent so much time at work. I thought you were just stalking me but that sounds legit,” he smiled uneasily, unexpectedly pained at Castiel’s lack conviction.

That prompted a derisive snort from the other man. “Well, both those assertions are true, as it happens,” Castiel said with an exaggerated eye-roll, like he’d only recently learned how to do one. “I observe out of habit however. Sometimes I feel like a ghost in my own life, just watching others go about theirs. In fact it feels like something I’ve been doing for longer, inherited from a former life perhaps--” he trailed off, looking introspectively somewhere over Dean’s shoulder.

“Do you always observe people with this frown on your face?” Dean asked fondly, thumbing over the ridges on Castiel’s brow.

“Probably, I… I wouldn’t know,” Castiel answered, taking the question seriously.

An image quite literally flew into Dean’s head, and he had an idea. “Let me—“ he asked, taking the bottle still resting in the other man’s hand. “I wanna try something, turn around.”

Castiel knitted his brows further together (apparently that was possible), but then pivoted on the sheets to sit cross-legged without further comment.

Dean took the brush and drained the excess ink against the neck, then started to paint. It took some time, but eventually he was happy with the swathe of looping lines fanning out across Castiel’s shoulders and triangularly down his back to his sides. In the meager light came out darker and more moody than he had planned with the shading in some areas, but he liked the effect.

“May I see?” Castiel asked when Dean leaned to leave the bottle on the bedside.

“Sure.”

He left the bed and walked through a near door, flicking the light as he went. When he returned he had on a bewildered expression. “You drew me wings?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, umm. I thought they’d suit you,” Dean explained, embarrassed now.

“Dean.” His name came out all husky and raw. Castiel folded over Dean, launching him back on the pillows in a dramatic heap.

“You like it?” Dean managed to utter in between assaults on his mouth.

“Mmm,” Castiel moaned as he pulled back, frowning again. “How could you know?” he muttered briefly before dismissing the question in favor of messily claiming another kiss Dean took as a ‘yes’.

“I revoke that rule,” the other man breathed after a few minutes of pawing at each other, lips glistening and swelling.

“What?” Dean panted.

“No sex. I take it back,” Castiel elaborated blearily.

It was Dean’s turn to frown, before he threw his weight to flip Castiel into his back and ground their pelvises together because _holy fuck_ did his dick need that.

“No,” he pronounced, most of his brain shrieking in horror.

“No?”

“No. The rules stand. No sex, no falling in love.”

“Really?” Castiel crowed, reaching down to inelegantly jack their sandwiched cocks together.

Dean bowed his forehead to Castiel’s, debating until the other man squirmed underneath him. “Okay, maybe just a little,” he qualified, licking at Castiel’s lips and thrusting down.

“Which one?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he whispered hoarsely, moving to nip under Castiel’s jaw as fingernails were embedded in his rear. At this rate it might end up being both, not that he was gonna admit it out loud.

He pushed down, carving a trail with his tongue that took in Castiel’s nipples and left wet circles around his navel, etching a few teeth marks in the thin skin over his ribs for good measure. He kissed down the shallow crease of his groin and darted across to lick a stripe the full length of Castiel’s curved cock to a chorus of his name chanted from further up the bed. He might be out of practice but the salty moisture caught on the end of his tongue had him sucking the length down without a second thought.

He bobbed slowly, hollowing his cheeks and savoring the texture sliding between his lips until a protest halted his movements. “DeanDeanDean, stop, I’m going to— stop,” Castiel growled in a tone that managed to be both pleading and grumpy.

Dean complied, reluctantly – he’d be completely okay with swallowing the other man down right now, but rules were rules. Crawling back, he blanketed his frame over Castiel’s to calm him.

“You okay there?” he asked, lips quirked in amusement. “Has been a while huh?”

Castiel didn’t answer, favouring to kiss him again instead, scooping the taste of himself from Dean’s mouth and grinding up with his hips increasingly feverish circles.

“Cas, you keep doing that and we’re both gonna come,” Dean observed, breathless, the friction taking it’s toll.

“Do it,” Castiel almost snarled, flooding a new wave of impulse to Dean’s dick.

That was it, the last of his resolve gone in two sexy-as-fuck syllables. He acquiesced with a harsh snap downwards making them both gasp. A palm inched between them as he rutted, securing them together, their movement scouring with an inefficient mix of sweat and pre-ejaculate, but the sharp friction; cocks, hipbones, mouths skirmishing spurred the coiling release against Dean's spine.

Dean latched to the meaty juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulder, sinking his teeth to help measure his pace and draw this out. The strategy failed miserably though when the other man came, the only warning fingers yanking in desperation his hair. A hoarse whine and sudden flood of liquid lubricating them hauled Dean to the edge and over, Castiel’s name locked in his throat as the release he'd craved and feared for weeks punched through him.

 

Dean surfaced sluggishly to fingertips mapping the contours of his spine. “Sorry,” Castiel said, hushed, 

He shifted to rest his brow on the other man’s chest. “Anyone ever tell ya you say that too much?” he replied flippantly, still finding his lungs.

Castiel took a deep breath under Dean’s cheek. “Since you ask, it’s something I took a long time to learn to say. Now I think I over compensate.”

Dean decided he wanted to know more of that backstory, another time. “Anyone ever tell ya you’re weird?” he asked fondly, nudging his mouth along Castiel’s clavicle and ignoring the stickiness cooling between their stomachs.

“I don’t usually give people the chance to find out, Dean,” was the sober reply, giving Dean pause. When he resumed, dotting his mouth along Castiel’s cheekbone it was with reverence, and when he dropped his lips to those below him he painted feeling with his tongue along the tiny creases and fostered it with soft tugs and flicks.

Eventually practicality interrupted and they had to clean up, Castiel retrieving them each a moist washcloth from the bathroom.

Afterwards they wordlessly lay down, parentheses in a new script, and slept, dreamless.

 

~ * ~

 

When Dean woke he was alone, the smell of toast and freshly cooked bacon reaching the bedroom. He rose, pulled on his jeans and began walking round the foot of the bed, freezing when he saw marks on the sheets. “Oh crap,” he croaked, realizing it was all his fault.

Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later he found Castiel, standing still and examining the same scene. “Uh, morning, and sorry,” Dean said, nodding his head to the mottled feathered imprint on Castiel’s once crisp white sheets. “It can’t have been dry when we um… you know—“

Castiel shrugged, an unusual gesture on him. “It looks a little sinister, doesn’t it,” he noted, his eyes dancing. “I hope it’s not an omen.”

“A good one, maybe,” Dean said with uncharacteristic optimism, reaching for the other man’s t-shirt and towing him closer for their first daylight kiss. He felt more weightless than he had in what seemed like forever.

Castiel softened against him, smiling into his mouth. “Hungry?” he eventually asked.

“Always,” Dean replied with a wink.

They ate in the quiet company of the morning, milky sunlight protruding the tall trees outside to stipple the room around them. The only time they spoke was when Castiel raised his orange juice in a toast. “Here’s to leaving old wings behind, and finding new stories,” he said with understated aplomb, Dean clinking his glass in agreement. _Yeah, still fucking odd,_ he happily concluded.

When Dean finally made his move to leave, he did so with genuine reluctance, but felt the press of doubt inside the cage of his ribs. He didn’t welcome the prospect of being alone with his thoughts for the day, second guessing everything.

“Are you sorry we broke the rules?” he asked as they stood inside Castiel’s front door, needing but not wanting the answer.

“No,” Castiel assured quickly. “Are you?” he asked in retort, keen eyes holding Dean to account.

“Ask me next time,” Dean said slyly, leaning forward to taste him one more time, salt and citrus and _Cas._

“Mmm,” Castiel agreed lazily, breaking away to wrap arms around him in a tight embrace. Dean returned it after taking a moment to remember the last time someone hugged him that wasn’t Sam. “F-Y-I,” Castiel added, “I’ve had a few close calls myself over time. But I’m still up for a challenge.”

“How close?” Dean asked, pulling out of the hug.

“Close enough to conclude I’m nearly indestructible,” Castiel assured, deadpan.

Dean hoisted his brows. “Good to know,” he noted, placing one last more austere press of lips to Castiel’s.

 

 

It wasn’t until that night, long after he’d showered Castiel’s writing from his back, that he went to dig his wallet out of his jacket pocket and found another wad of paper tucked on top. Pulling it out it took him a few moments to recognise the origami fortune teller, of the kind he probably hadn’t used since he was seven. Not that it was the kind of thing you forget how to use.

Dean sank into his couch and opened it out, tucking his fingertips into the indentations and flicking the device several times experimentally.

He pulled up Castiel’s number on his phone and opened the text string.

**Pick a color**

He received a reply within moments.

_**> Green** _

**Pick a number**

_**> 5** _

Since he was no longer seven he wasn’t actually going to count out the folds, opting to just open the toy and reading the flap marked 5.

Inside was a tiny line in Castiel’s perfectly penned elaborate lettering;

 

_‘We accept the love we think we deserve’_

_Hmm,_ he hummed aloud, suspicious.

**Pick another number**

**> _2_**

Inside there was a longer line in a different, even smaller font.

 

_‘Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within’_

 

He had to give him his dues, he was a persistent nerd. One he could get used to seeing naked and cooking him breakfast. One he could get used to having his hands mapping him, breath tickling over him, tongue teasing him, eyes laughing with him...

_Shit._

 

He tapped out one more text.

**Are you trying to tell me something?**

**_> Yes, Dean._ **

Dean smirked, thinking he could hear exasperation in each character in the reply.

 

 

He cleaned his teeth and arranged himself on his bed, taking a few moments to reassure himself. Then he called the number he’d finally decided to save as a new contact in his phone.

_“Hello, Dean.”_

“Heya, Cas,” he said gently. Even down the phone that voice made his heart drum a little faster. “Are coming in to work tomorrow?”

_“Yes, I should think so. Why?”_

“Can you-- I'd like you to write me a story.”

 

 

    ~ FIN ~

 

 

 Addendum: Thanks to [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste) for prompting me to link the [Gustave Doré engraving that Cas has a version of](http://danteworlds.laits.utexas.edu/purgatory/gallery/0211eagle.jpg) 

The first two poems Cas writes to Dean are exerts from 'Remembered music' and 'The beauty of the heart', both by Rumi. The third is Gelett Burgess and is a little nod to my Grandad.

The quote Cas paints on Dean's back in indian ink is from 'If you forget me' by Pablo Neruda.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted in a hurry and is not as polished as I would have liked. Please forgive any clunky sentences and clunkier metaphors.
> 
> I had so much more depth to add to Dean's interior landscape and what is behind the scenes of these two. I may come back to it.


End file.
